


we're on the road to nowhere (let's find out where it goes)

by impossibletruths



Series: the beautiful things the heavens carry [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Families of Choice, Gen, Team as Family, Teambuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9441998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: He collects them slowly, and mostly by accident. [or, a Critical Role Star Wars AU]





	1. the twins

**Author's Note:**

> a labor of love. many, many thanks to [forcekenobi](http://forcekenobi.tumblr.com) on tumblr for the beta
> 
> title from “No Hopers, Jokers & Rogues” by Port Isaac's Fisherman’s Friends
> 
> _come, all you no hopers, you jokers and rogues_   
>  _we're on the road to nowhere_   
>  _let's find out where it goes_   
>  _it might be a ladder to the stars, who knows_   
>  _come all you no hopers, you jokers and rogues_

 

> part i: the twins [a pair of good-for-nothing shits without two credits to rub together and all the stubbornness of the Galactic Senate]

* * *

It happens like this: he takes one look at them, scowling at some faceless imperial officer as their ship is impounded right before their eyes, and his heartstrings sing like a Bastanian fiddle. He doesn’t even realize he’s moving towards them until he’s halfway across the docking bay.

Scanlan’s no Jedi, but there are some things he just knows.

“Oi, officer,” he calls across the platform, weaving between impatient passengers and scowling merchants and faceless troopers; spaceports tend to blur into the same mass of life and machinery and engine grease when you’ve visited as many of them as Scanlan has. The trio look up as he approaches, all of their faces equally guarded. The ship crouches behind them, a top-of-the-line yacht that was probably beautiful once but has seen the business end of a blaster turret one too many times. Scanlan’s momentarily amazed they actually want to go anywhere in that thing; it’s one short jump from falling apart. “’Scuse me, is there a problem here?”

“Nothing that concerns you, sir,” says the Imp, face and voice flat and lifeless, and Scanlan has seen enough disturbing stuff in space that nothing much fazes him anymore but these guys still make his skin crawl. “Move along.”

“Well, y’see, I would, but these two work for me, so if they’re in trouble...”

“We’re not––” one of them starts, and the other one makes expert use of an elbow.

“In trouble,” she finishes, and ooh, Scanlan likes her. She smiles up at the officer, her eyes wide and guileless, and the utility droid behind her whirs a query. “Just some paperwork mixup. I thought we had the shipping manifest, but I guess I must have left it with you. Captain.”

“I told you I had it,” Scanlan replies without hesitation, already sizing up the officer as best he can, deciding how to play this. Irritated captain, he thinks. Or maybe clueless captain? Imperial agent? Conning Imperials isn’t exactly rocket science, but some of them are clever. He doesn’t think this is one of the clever ones––if he were, he wouldn’t be asking a couple of kids for shipping manifests on a muddy backwater moon like this. “Go on, take your useless brother back to the ship. I’ll deal with this.” He’s guessing brother, anyways. They look identical; either it’s a brother or they’re out of Kamino. Maybe both. You never know with clones, not since the war.

“Now hold on––” the officer starts. Scanlan musters his most impatient smile and makes sure it doesn’t reach his eyes. The man frowns. Ah, so he can show emotion.

“Officer, these two are absolutely useless to you and every minute they’re not working for me they’re wasting my money. Let’s you and I talk about this. Man to man.”

The brother scoffs at that, and Scanlan smiles with an edge. _Believe me,_ he pushes, layers it with honesty and authority, and the man caves.

“Alright,” the officer says. He sounds uncertain. “If you’re the one to talk to.”

“I am,” Scanlan assures him, oozing self-confidence. It’s not particularly difficult. He’s a confident kinda guy.

“Your employees are free to go. You should teach them some manners.”

“Oh, I will,” Scanlan agrees, nodding. “Definitely.”

“Can’t wait,” mumbles the brother. Scanlan decides he likes him too, the shit.

“Get out of here,” he says to them, eyes flicking between the sister––clearly the brains of this operation––and his ship. She’s a refitted TL-1800 with a distinctly purple paint job, the ugliest damn ship he’s ever seen and his pride and joy. “Go, uh, work. Like I pay you.”

“Yes, captain,” says the sister with a quick two-finger salute, and she drags her brother across the platform. The droid trails them, whistling as they go. Scanlan turns back to the officer.

“So, what exactly is the problem?”

“Your shipping manifest.”

“Right.” Shit. “Well, actually, I haven’t got one.”

“Excuse me?”

_Think fast, Shorthalt._ "I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but I’m on a _very_ important mission for the Empire. Top secret stuff. You’re going to blow my cover.”

“I’m going to need to see some identification.”

“You don’t need to see my identification.”

The officer frowns. “Sir––”

“Listen.” Scanlan interrupts him before he can get started, leaning in close. The officer has to bend over to hear him. “I’ve got information to send to the brass. Right to the top. You’ve already stopped two of my top agents, and if we don’t get off this moon immediately there’s going to be hell to pay from high up. Real shit. So why don’t you just let me go do my job, and I won’t tell your boss I’m late because I got held up talking to a customs officer. Sound good?”

“I don’t know who you are––”

“Burt Reynolds, esquire. Go ahead, look me up. I’ll be waiting.”

The officer frowns. Scanlan frowns right back, and crosses his arms for good measure. The moment stretches, so tense he thinks it might snap. He hopes the kids know how to prime a ship. He hopes they’re not gonna steal it out from under him. That would serve him right, for getting involved.

Shit.

The officer pulls a datapad out. “One moment,” he says stiffly. Scanlan makes a show of drumming his fingers against his arm as the man puts something in. A minute later, the pad chimes. Scanlan watches with a pleased sort of interest as his face drains of color.

“I–– Agent Reynolds, I’m so sorry, sir––”

“So I can go?”

“Yes, of course sir, my apologies––”

“Don’t let it happen again––” He looks at the man’s rank and mostly guesses, “Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I don’t want any trouble with traffic control on my way out.”

“None at all, sir.”

“Good man. As you were.”

“Of course, sir.”

Scanlan turns smartly on his heel and marches back across the port as if he owns the place. He’s pleasantly surprised the Cube is still docked where he left her. Two faces peer out at him as he steps up the boarding ramp.

“Who are––” the boy starts, and Scanlan shakes his head and closes the door The ramp rises with a slow hiss.

“Is there anything on your ship you still need?” Scanlan asks as he strides down the narrow hall, the two of them in his wake.

The sister trips on the uneven flooring where Scanlan hasn’t quite locked down the smuggling compartments. He’d planned on having more time on the moon, but given the choice between picking up another shipment and getting away from here before the Imperials flags his alias, he’ll take the loss in profits. At least he’ll still have his head. “What–– no, we’ve got everything on us, what is this––“

“Good,” Scanlan says. “Cause we’re leaving.”

“Going _where_ ?” the boy asks––he’s going to have to get their names eventually, he thinks, when they are far, _far_ away from this moon. The droid beeps.

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” he tells them, strapping into the pilot’s seat, starting the preflight checks as the board goes green beneath his fingers. The two stare with wide eyes and buckle in, fumbling with the safety harness.

They pull away from the port in a haze of exhaust, leaving the once-silver hull of the kid’s ship behind them. The girl stares at it as they go, and Scanlan pretends not to notice the way her face falls. The boy reaches over to grab her hand.

“We’ve done it before,” he murmurs, and she nods. Scanlan focuses on the space lanes, hands tight on the controls. He doesn’t want to know.

They burn through the atmosphere, his fingers anxiety-tight on the controls, waiting for the Imperials to order them down, but no one stops them or calls them back as they tear free of of the moon’s gravity well, and Scanlan breathes out a sigh of relief as the muddy ground gives way to the vastness of space, the planet above them blocking out the light of the system’s sun. The kids are quiet.

“Now what?” asks the girl, eyes trailing the rotation of the moon as it makes its slow turn behind the planet.

“Ever been to Corellia?” Scanlan decides, question half rhetorical as he punches in coordinates. “You’re gonna love it.”

“This is a terrible idea,” says the boy unevenly, full of false bravado. Scanlan grins.

“Yep. Welcome aboard.”

The stars stretch into lines and they lurch forwards into the emptiness of hyperspace.

* * *

Their names, he learns, are Vex and Vax. Well, Vex’ahlia and Vax’ildan, but that’s a mouthful in a firefight, so nicknames it is. Scanlan snorts.

“That’s terrible. Who named you?”

“Our mother,” snaps the boy. Vex. No, Vax. Shit. “What kind of a name is Scanlan Shorthalt anyways?”

“Mine,” says Scanlan. “And that’s Captain Shorthalt to you two.”

“We weren’t asking for help, you know,” says the girl. Her droid––a retrofitted T3 utility droid, designation T3-K7––twitters in agreement. “We can handle ourselves.”

“Well, what can I say. I’m a bleeding heart.”

Her eyes narrow. “Sure.”

“And you owe me one.”

"Bullshit,” says the boy. Vax. Right. He’s getting the hang of this. “No way. You want to help us out, fine, but we don’t owe you shit.”

“You practically kidnapped us,” says Vex, hand tight around some kind of weapon on her back; it looks vaguely like a vibrostaff. “We aren’t working for you.”

Scanlan holds his hands up, the universal gesture for surrender. Or to cool it; Scanlan’s not quite sure which he’s going for right now. Bit of both, probably. “Listen,” he says calmly. “I’m not a slaver or a bounty hunter, just an honest freighter captain.” Mostly honest, anyways, but anyone with a courier as retrofitted as theirs probably isn’t strictly on the right side of the law either. “I don’t want any help you’re not willing to give. I just need a few extra hands to help me pick up some, uh, cargo from Corellia and bring it to a couple of people who’ll pay a whole lot for it. Some help from two strapping young folk like yourself would be a weight off my old bones. And then we’ll all go our separate ways, debts paid. Sound good?”

“You’ll pay us,” the girl says. Scanlan’s eyebrows rise.

“Excuse me?”

“For services rendered. A split of the payment. Forty percent.”

“Fifteen,” Scanlan corrects.

“Thirty.”

“Twenty, with room and board.”

The twins look to each other.

“And no questions asked,” Scanlan tacks on. He knows that look, the wide-eye wariness. He remembers the fear that anyone might take advantage of a kid on his own in this wide, hateful galaxy. “I promise.”

“What about our ship?” demands Vax. “How are we supposed to get her back?”

“Vax,” says Vex quietly.

“We’re not just going to––“

“Well what do you want to do?” she snaps. Both of them look utterly miserable, shoulders slumped, hands fisted at their sides, and Scanlan feels his heartstrings sing again, but he doesn’t know what he can do. Not against something as big as the Empire.

“We already––” Vex starts quietly, almost too quietly for Scanlan to hear, and Vax’s expression goes still, eyes disappearing into shadow.

Vex purses her lips. “Give us a moment,” she requests, so Scanlan ducks out of the hold to give them their privacy.

He’d love to get them back to their own ship, of course. Well. He’d probably help, for a little compensation. But he’s seen his fair share of impounded vessels on Imperial-occupied planets, and short of stealing it from the Imperial compound before they scrap it, there’s no way anyone’s going to get it back. He’s hardly the Rebellion; all he does is play music and smuggle spice. Sometimes both at the same time. Sticking it to the Empire is for people with nothing left to lose.

Really, they’re lucky they aren’t on their way to a penal colony right now. That’s about the best folk like them can manage, all things considered. He scuffs a foot against the floor.

A few minutes later they step out of the hold, faces drawn. They look to each other, and Vax nods. Vex steps forwards.

“We’ll stay,” she says. “We’ll work for you. Twenty percent, room and board, and we’ll stay until we decide to go.” She holds her hand out. “Deal?”

Scanlan doesn’t need to consider it. There’s something about them that’s–– not honest, exactly, but true. A feeling deep in his gut, deeper than instinct. He takes her hand. “Deal.”

Her handshake is firm and strong, and she meets his eyes without backing down. The droid beeps. Scanlan grins.

“Welcome aboard,” he says. The twins offer tentative smile.

The rest, as they say, is history.


	2. the scholar

> part ii: the scholar [an alien with all the knowledge of the greatest sages and none of the sense]

* * *

It happens like this: he is, originally, a job.

The Trandoshan contacts them from some planet even Scanlan hasn’t heard of, a gas giant out past Aduba-3. The transmission comes by way of four separate relays, well encrypted and rerouted through half a dozen systems.

“Wow,” says Vax when he sees the mess of holonet signals and personal coding embedded in the message, fingers tapping at the comms center as he cleans it up, and Scanlan’s almost put out the kid knows his ship better than he does. “This guy’s either brilliant or an idiot.”

Turns out, he’s both.

* * *

“Hello!” says the flickering transmission as it rotates in a lazy circle in the cockpit. “I’m Tiberius Stormwind, from Draconia. I am currently looking for a ship to transport an item of, ah, great personal and historical value, off-planet. I hope to pay you for your services, if you would be amenable to such employment.” The transmission comes with coordinates, and a sum that makes Vex’s eyes light up like the Coruscant skyline.

“We’re going,” she says when the transmission loops again.

“Excuse you, this is my ship.”

Vex looks phenomenally unimpressed. “And you’re going to say no to all that money to prove a point.”

“No of course not,” Scanlan scoffs. “I’d never say no to that much money. Vax.”

“Yeah?”

“Let him know we’re coming and we expect half our payment up front.”

“Aye aye,” Vax says with a smirk, fingers already tapping over the comms.

“And Vex, leave your fucking droid out of it this time. You know how I hate that thing.”

“Don’t you dare touch my droid.”

“I’m just saying––”

“He’s saved your life.”

“He definitely has not.”

“You were there.”

“I’m pretty sure he put my life in danger.”

“You’re impossible,” Vex huffs. She turns on her heel and stomps her way towards the cargo bay.

“I pay you,” Scanlan shouts after her.

“No you don’t!”

“She’s right, you know,” says Vax. “She handles the finances.”

“Shut up and do your job,” Scanlan grumbles, punching in the coordinates to calculate their jump. At least they’re close; this only takes them half a standard day out of their way.

Vax is still smirking when the stars streak past them and they leap forward into hyperspace.

* * *

“Careful, careful!” Stormwind weaves back and forth as if they are handling an infant, not a two-ton slab of rock. “That’s a fourteen thousand year old holy relic of the Omawi peoples!”

“I don’t even know what that is,” says Scanlan as the lift grinds to a stop. “How did you get out here anyways?”

“I flew of course.” The alien towers over him; Scanlan has to crane his neck up to see his face. “Then there was a slight, ah, malfunction.”

“You crashed,” Vax supplies helpfully.

“The ship malfunctioned,” Stormwind corrects frostily. “I had nothing to do with it.”

"I’m sure,” Vex says soothingly. That’s why she’s Scanlan’s favorite.

“So where are we taking this?” he asks as everyone settles in, relic strapped down in the cargo hold with the rest of their goods. Stormwind frowns.

“Ah.”

“You do have a buyer, right?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“How much is it worth?” asks Vex. “I’m sure we could fence it––”

“Absolutely not.” Stormwind looks horrified. “This is a priceless artifact; it must go to a legitimate museum or collection, I couldn’t possibly see it in the hands of some Rim scoundrel.”

“I hate to tell you this, but you just hired a bunch of Rim scoundrels,” Vax points out, twirling a vibroknife between his fingers for effect. Stormwind looks far less concerned about that than he should.

“You seem like a perfectly reasonable sort,” he says. “And I’m paying you quite a lot.”

“We could take your money and space you,” Scanlan shrugs. Stormwind frowns.

“I suppose.”

Stars above, he’s going to get himself killed out here.

“Look,” says Scanlan, feeling particularly generous, and also hoping to get paid before this guy walks into the business end of a blaster and blows his own head off. “I know some people, I can find you a legitimate buyer. And you can pay us half, for service rendered.”

Stormwind doesn’t even stop to consider the deal, or how much money he’s losing. “Very well.”

Vex glances sidelong at him. Yeah, this guy’s gonna get himself killed.

“Right!” says Scanlan cheerfully. “Looks like we have a deal.”

* * *

They make it a good sixteen standard hours before the pirates show up.

“Hey, Scanman,” says Vax, because he has no sense of propriety or command structure, but there’s a note of high-pitched anxiety in his voice that Scanlan has quickly become familiar with. It makes his fingers twitch. “There’s something here you might want to see?”

“I probably don’t,” Scanlan tells him, but he looks anyway. A blip of a ship inches closer on the scanner, broadcasting no codes or greeting. “Have you tried hailing them?”

“No, I thought I’d just watch them show up and see what happens.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you think they want?”

“Ask our scaly friend.”

“Righto.” Scanlan makes a lot of calculations in a very little bit of time, because he’s incredibly smart like that. “Where’s your sister?”

“Cannons.”

“She’s my favorite.”

“Fuck off, Shorthalt.”

“Let me know when they're in range.”

“You’ll know,” says Vax darkly. Scanlan goes in search of Stormwind, and finds him playing Dejarik against himself, holographic pieces flickering slightly as Vax reroutes power. Both sides seem to be losing, which is pretty impressive when you think about it.

“Oi, Stormwind,” he says. “Any idea why we’ve got pirates on our tail?”

“It’s quite possible they’re searching for the artifact,” he says, not looking up from the game. “It is quite valuable, you know.”

Scanlan swallows a very noisy, put-upon sigh. “Right. Well, chances are we’re going to be boarded. You probably want to get to your cabin and, I dunno, pray.”

“Oh, I’m very well versed in combat,” says Stormwind calmly, looking at him over the spectacles perched on his nose. “Do not worry about me.”

“Right,” says Scanlan, already calculating the charges in the starboard laser cannon. “Well, good luck then.”

Yeah. Definitely gonna get himself killed.

* * *

Stormwind does not, contrary to all evidence and rational sense, get himself killed.

The firefight is short and shitty; the pirates far outstrip the twin laser cannons of the Cube, and once it becomes clear they won’t be able to get out of this without wrecking the ship Scanlan waves the flag of surrender. Metaphorically, anyways. He’s out here to make money, not to die for something as stupid as two tons of historical rock.

So, he’s all crouched in the cargo bay, blaster at the ready. Vax at his side tightens his grip around those damned vibroknives of his and Vex has just powered up her energy bow with a quiet whine when Stormwind shows up wearing a scowl, the largest goddamn flamethrower Scanlan has seen, and what looks like half the grenades in their inventory.

“I am a Trandoshan,” he says mildly when they stare at him with open shock, before setting off an explosion that blows the boarding ramp off the pirates’ ship before anyone even makes it aboard, and they watch through the viewport as the poor boarding party gets spaced. “We are quite capable warriors.”

“Right,” says Scanlan, picking his jaw up off the floor. “Uh. Great.

* * *

“You say you’re looking for artifacts, right?” Scanlan asks him afterwards, when they’ve given the pirate’s the middle finger and jumped to hyperspace. It’s a rhetorical question, of course––Stormwind won’t shut up about it.

“Yes, I am,” he says. “I’m something of a historian, you know.”

“I had no idea,” Scanlan deadpans, and he thinks he sees a smile twitch at the corner of the Trandoshan’s mouth. So he does have a sense of humor. “You know, we do a lot of traveling. We’ll probably run into some other ancient artifacts. And we could use someone with your, y’know, skills.”

“Are you offering me a job?”

“Vex handles finances,” says Scanlan.

“We could manage it,” she nods. “You’ll still have to pay for goods transported.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Stormwind says, and Vex’s grin widens. Scanlan offers his hand.

“Welcome aboard, Tiberius Stormwind.”

“I’ve always wanted to be an adventurer,” says Tiberius.

Vax laughs. “You’re gonna love it, Tibs.”


	3. the mandalorians

> part iii: the mandalorians [a pair of siblings with enough firepower to take down a small army, and the love of Scanlan Shorthalt’s life]

* * *

It happens like this: they’re on Mandalore for all of six hours, refueling under the shadow of the Star Destroyer in the upper atmosphere, and an angel straight from the moons of Iego asks to book passage.

“Why our ship?” Vax asks while Scanlan carefully extracts his heart from his ribcage so he can hand it to her on a silver platter.

“You look the cheapest,” she shrugs, mouth pulling up into something caught between a grimace and a grin, and Scanlan can’t even bring himself to be hurt.

“Of course,” he agrees. And then, because Vex would shoot him if he didn’t mention it, he says, “Payment is half up front.

The angel looks unfazed. “Alright. It’s me and my brother. Will that be a problem?”

“Not at all,” says Vax smoothly. “We’re a little pressed for time, though, so if there’s anything you need to do––”

“He’s outside,” she says. “We’re ready when you are.”

“Well then, I’ll leave you two to settle debts.” Vax winks at her, and she smiles back, and she shines like the sun in blue and gold mando armor. A warrior goddess if he’s ever seen one.

“Half up front,” she says, paying no attention to his starstruck gaze and pressing a credchip into his hand. He tries to catch her fingers as he closes his fist around the payment, but she’s already turned to shout down the ramp. “Hey! Grog!” Grog appears moments later.

Grog is neither small, nor dainty, nor fair-haired, nor resplendent in shining blue armor. Grog is the largest man Scanlan has seen in his life, with a shaved head covered in tattoos and a scarred, dented, steel-grey set of armor across his shoulders, which are easily three times broader than Scanlan’s own. Grog’s got a grin like a warrior and eyes like thermal clips. He’s carrying enough firepower to take down a small Imperial bunker.

”Siblings” says Scanlan, eyes slipping from the tiny woman in front of him to the mountain of a man at her shoulder. Maybe they’re in-laws. “Right.”

The angel doesn’t seem at all fazed by his skepticism. “This is Grog,” she says. “I’m Pike.”

“Pike.” A beautiful, deadly name for a beautiful, deadly woman. “Where’s a girl like you flying off to?”

“Away from here,” she says, and she’s got a look in her eyes, a sharp-edged sort of sadness that Scanlan knows as well as he knows his own reflection, the private one he sees in the the viewscreen when he’s alone with nothing but the expanse of empty space.

“Alright then,” he says, and it’s not the fire of love in his chest that has him offering his hand. (Well. Not entirely.) “Welcome aboard.”

* * *

Away from here ends up being Siskeen––Kaer, specifically––where they pick up a shipment, a routine delivery job, the kind they’ve performed dozens of times before. T3-K7 stays with the ship, keeps the engines hot while they pick up the cargo. Scanlan doesn’t bother to ask what it is; that’s not what he gets paid for. So long as it’s not sentients, he doesn’t much care what he’s moving. Morals are for people with time and money on their hands. He looks out for him and his, and it’s enough.

He doesn’t really expect the Mandos to help out. He hasn’t met many Mandalorians that are the helpful sort, really. Sure, you get the odd bounty hunter, maybe a damn fool crusader, but when they step off the ship and Pike and Grog follow them, it brings him up short.

“Listen,” he says. “It’s just a quick pick up job. You should stay with the ship.”

“We’re coming,” says Grog. “Pike’s got a bad feeling.”

“Soldier’s instinct?” asks Vax.

Scanlan almost misses the way Grog’s eyes shift towards Pike before they snap back towards Vax. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Scanlan glances between them––Pike who’s not much taller than Scanlan is and Grog who could probably bench the twins without breaking a sweat––and understanding sweeps over him. He lets it go; there’ll be time to talk later. Besides, he’d rather have the extra hands. He’s not superstitious or anything like that, but sometimes the galaxy throws a little extra help your way, and then it’s best to listen.

Besides, if Tiberius is tagging along they may as well bring the armed and trained soldiers too.

“Follow my lead,” he says. “And if things go south, you make sure you rescue me, alright?”

“Aye aye, captain,” grunts Grog. He’s got a grin stretched across his face that Scanlan doesn’t quite like the look of, but before he can say anything about it the man crams his helmet over his head, grey with the bold echo of his tattoos painted across it, and the half-feral grin disappears into the faceless mask of the Mandalorian.

Which is almost as disturbing, truth be told, but Scanlan turns his back and decides not to mull on it. They’ve got a job to do.

Stars willing, it’ll be quick and easy.

* * *

It’s neither quick nor easy.

Oh sure, it starts that way, but then it turns out the Black Sun’s operating off the old mining platform, and they tend to get territorial, and, well, the point is, it ends with them pinned down at the edge of the landing platform as the cartel approaches, blaster fire scoring across the crates they’re supposed to be loading onto the ship.

“I told you we should have checked the manifest up front,” Vex says, crouched low to reload her blaster cartridge.

“We did check the manifest,” he reminds her over the whine of a droid. Great, the grunts have backup. “None of this is my fault. If the lizard hadn’t started poking around––“

“Excuse me, that’s very rude,” snaps Tiberius, pausing long enough to lob some sort of explosive over the top of the crate he’s sheltering behind; it explodes in a flash of white that leaves spots on Scanlan’s vision. “Besides, that was a very rare specimen of––“

“Save it for later,” advises Vax. His stealth field flickers; they’ve been meaning to get it upgraded for weeks, but in the meantime it means he’s stuck back here with them, mostly useless.

“At this rate there won’t be a later,” Vex says tartly, and Scanlan only just sees Vax pull a face at her out of the corner of his eye. Really this isn’t Tiberius’ fault. If he’d know the Sun had staked a claim in this system he’d have steered well clear of it, profits be damned.

Scanlan switches out his thermal clip. “Any suggestions, team?”

“Don’t get shot,” Vax replies tersely, ducking out of cover to send a knife spinning towards one of the agents. It catches between the guy’s arm and shoulder, and he goes down as the knife rips itself free and comes spinning back to land in Vax’s palm.

“Um, guys?” That’s Pike, voice tinny through her helmet. She gestures with her blaster towards the mining HQ, where the doors are opening so more cartel thugs can pour through. “I think we have company.”

“Well, shit.” Scanlan eyes the Cube across the landing platform, and the fresh wave of attackers running towards them. “Guys, it’s been swell.”

“Don’t say that,” Vex groans, and Scanlan spares a moment to shrug at her, as if to say  _ what can ya do? _

Without warning, Grog stands up and hoists an actual fucking blaster cannon off his back like some guardian angel-cum-soldier or something (which, shit, Scanlan has been dipping in and out the business of trading songs and stories for years now and damn if this doesn’t strike him as some big damn heroic moment) and shouts, “Get ready to run!”

“Wha––“ Vax starts, before Grog slams down on the trigger and the whine of blaster fire fills the air again, and the Black Sun member stumbled back, wrong footed for all of six seconds.

“You heard the man!” Scanlan shouts. “Grab what you can and go!”

He doesn’t wait for Vax’s response; he slams the repulsorlift on and pushes the hovering crate he’s hiding behind forwards while Grog lays down cover fire. He thinks he hears the twins behind him, but mostly he just trusts they’ll save their own skins. Tiberius puffs along at his side, head ducked low to avoid shots flying wide. One of the pitfalls of being a tall race, Scanlan supposes. Not that he would know.

He makes it to the ramp in one piece, which is a marvel, and as soon as he’s on board he heads straight for the cockpit, double checking the droid’s pre-flight prep and staring out over the landing pad as the cartel thugs regroup. He sees Tiberius make it, disappear into the shadow of the ship and clang into the cargo bay as he drops his goods.

The twins are halfway across the platform, Grog laying down fire and bellowing out laughter, and Pike is–– Where is she? His heart catches in his mouth for a moment before he sees her rise from behind one of the few remaining cargo crates, blaster firing.

Scanlan thumbs his comm on.

“Pike!” he shouts, and her head snaps to search for him before her eyes land on the ship. “Get outta there!”

She nods once, expression unreadable behind her helmet, and comes dashing out from behind the crates. Grog must get the message too, because he starts backing towards the ship, keeping the twins covered. For a moment it looks like they’re actually going to pull this off. Sure, they’ve lost some cargo, but a few crates isn’t bad, given how quickly this fell apart on them.

Down below, a blaster bolt slices through Grog’s defense and catches Vax in the back of the leg and he goes down with a shout, clutching his calf. Vex makes it half a dozen paces before realizing her brother isn’t with her, and Scanlan sees her eyes go wide. She stops, turning back for Vax, and Scanlan watches everything happen in slow motion: the Black Sun begins to regroup, and Grog falls back, and the twins crouch behind Vax’s crate of cargo as blaster bolts fly around them, Vax clutching his leg, and Scanlan is stuck in the cockpit with Trinket. 

He won’t make it to the guns before they’re overrun, he realizes. He’s stuck watching, a hundred ideas flashing through his head, each more outrageous than the last, but he hasn’t got the  _ time _ , and––

And Pike Trickfoot swoops in, flickering energy shield springing from her gauntlet like she’s some avenging angel, standing between the twins and the gunmen, resplendent in blue and gold. Vex hauls her brother’s arm over her shoulders and together they limp towards the ship, Pike shielding them as energy bolts blazes around them, small but stalwart, unflinching despite the blaster fire thundering into her shield. Then they’re up the ramp, and someone must shout something because Grog turns and sprints towards them, racing across the platform with enormous strides as if he isn’t carrying roughly half a ton of weaponry and explosives, and Scanlan didn’t know a man could run that fast.

He hears Grog arrive with the hissing impact of blaster bolts against the hull and the clatter of armor against the deck, and then Vex shouts, “Go, go, fucking go!” down the halls and Scanlan hits the engines, sends them roaring to life.

“Strap in!” Scanlan shouts, and they lift from the platform with blaster bolts still flying past them. The Cube cuts through the thin atmosphere like paper, leaving a trail of burning gas in their wake, and the burst forth into the vacuum of space, the haze of the planet bleeding away as they leave it behind them, and Scanlan sits back and breathes.

He flips on the internal comms.

“Anyone dead?” he asks, his voice echoing through the Cube.

“That’s a negative,” says Pike, and she laughs. “I’ll get your pilot patched up in no time, don’t you worry.”

“I’m setting a course for Nar Shadaa,” says Scanlan. “That was fun and all but next time let’s avoid the major crime syndicate.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” he hears Grog rumble before he cuts the feed, and he can’t help but grin.

* * *

Scanlan finds Pike organizing the med bay afterwards, when they’re safely in hyperspace and Trinket’s keeping an eye on the autopilot. She looks up when he enters and sets down the sealed bacta patches, staring at him with a look somewhere between resignation and expectation. Scanlan palms the door shut behind him.

“You’re gnomish,” he says, almost accusatory.

“I–– what?”

“I knew there was something about you.”

“Scanlan––“

“You knew something was going to go wrong.”

“Soldier’s intuition.” The excuse falls flat, and they both know it. Pike sighs and hoists herself up onto the cot. Scanlan crosses his arms, leaning against the door.

“I didn’t know there were gnomes on Mandalore.”

She bites her lip and looks down at her hands. “A small clan. My family has something of a… reputation, though. I didn’t grow up with them.”

“Oh.”

“But my grandfather, he’s Mandalorian, so.”

“Right.”

“You’re gnomish.”

Scanlan puffs his chest out. “Born and bred.”

“But, the Empire––“

“I was traveling when they–– Y’know.“

“Right.”

“Is your family––“

She smiles a little, and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Right.”

They’re both silent for a moment.

“I won’t, y’know, say anything,” Scanlan promises her. She laughs, bright and warm, and he decides right then and there that he would happily bask in that for the rest of his life.

“Grog knows already. I’m not sure anyone else cares.”

“The twins don’t. I’m not sure about Tiberius.”

“I’m not sure he’d notice,” Pike says, brutally honest, and Scanlan laughs.

“Well,” he says. “If you ever want to, I don’t know, talk. Maybe have a private dinner for two. I play a mean shawm. And I have my own cabin.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” she shrugs. “I think I’m okay.”

“Offer’s always open,” he tells her. She shakes her head.

“I’ll think about it.” Her tone of voice says she’s already done all the thinking she needs to do, but a romantic like Scanlan lives on hope. He open the door.

“Just let me know. Anytime, day or night.”

“Goodbye, Scanlan.”

“Bye, Pikey-pants.”

* * *

They make it from Siskeen to Nar Shadaa and Nar Shadaa back to Phindar before the twins bring it up. Vax is back at the controls now that his leg has healed and Vex, sitting at his side as always, says, “Out with it.”

“Out with what?” asks Scanlan at the nav station, trying to decide if it’s worth it to jump through the Quelii Sector or chance the Braxant Run. The hyperspace lane will cut the travel time by half, but it’s crawling with Imps, and they’ve currently got some questionable cargo on board.

Though, to be fair, they almost always have questionable cargo on board. Questions, questions.

“Why’re they still here?” Vex asks.

“They’re paying us,” he shrugs. “We’re not turning away paying customers now, are we?”

“Paying for passage,” Vax says, and there’s something off in his voice. Scanlan looks up from the quadrant map. “Not paying to help us.”

They’re sitting side by side, seats turned around to stare at him with matching expressions, arms folded. In their spacer jackets, with their hair loose, they’re practically indistinguishable. Scanlan narrows his eyes.

“What are you saying?”

“They’re helpful, Shorthalt,” says Vax. “Grog knows his way around a blaster better than anyone and Pike’s been patching up blaster burns since we hightailed it out of Siskeen. Why’re we still pretending they’re passengers?”

“You’re asking me to give them a job?”

“Well they’ve already taken it, offered or not,” Vex says pointedly. “So I’m not charging them.”

Scanlan finds himself bristling at the insinuation that he can’t organize his own ship. “Well if it’s all dealt with––“

Vax cuts him off. “Oh, come off it, Scanlan. The Cube is yours.” He seems to realize what he says and pulls a face, and Scanlan can’t help but offer a wide, pleased smile. Vax sighs. “We’re not hiring hands without your go-ahead.”

“But you are hiring them.”

“Scanlan,” says Vex in that voice of hers that’s both soothing and no-nonsense, and Scanlan’s not one for talk of hokey shit like fate and destiny but star’s end, something went right when he stumbled across those two. That Gnomish intuition hasn’t yet steered him wrong. “We’re not going behind your back, darling. We’re just saying. We agree.”

He considers them, a pair of scruffy, good-for-nothing layabouts with shadows behind their eyes and that sort of desperate dependency he’s seen too often from misfits born to the Rim.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, as if his mind wasn’t made up when he first saw Pike Trickfoot, with her sharp-sad eyes and her hair like an Alderaanian sunrise, as if he hadn’t decided when he’d seen the monster of a man stand behind her shoulder who both dwarfed her and looked at her like she was the whole world.

(Okay, so maybe he’s a little bit in love with Pike Trickfoot. Well, who wouldn’t be.)

Vax frowns. “What, just like that?”

“We could argue about it if you’d like,” Scanlan offers with a shrug. Vex huffs.

“Then go talk to them, before they decide to jump ship next time we dock.”

“Excuse me, who’s the captain around here?” he asks. “This is my Cube. I make the rules.”

“I–– That went so many places I didn’t want to go.” Vex squeezes her eyes shut. Vax snorts, and she elbows him, opening her eyes with a sigh so she can pin him with a look, gaze steely. “So you’ll talk to them.”

“Yes, yes, your complaints are noted. Don’t you have jobs to do?”

Vax offers him a salute, and the finger. Vex shakes her hair out of her face and spins around in her chair. Scanlan stands and raises his arms over his head to stretch as he leaves the cramped cockpit, and only when he’s alone in the narrow, grey hall does he pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn’t set out into the wide reaches of the galaxy to pick up a bunch of wandering misfits. He did it to make a living, and have some fun, and maybe tell a good story or two. But here he is, gathering up sad-eyed, fucked up, scrappy nobodies from all across the galaxy.

Well. Takes one to know one, he supposes. With a sigh he goes in search of the Mandos.

He finds them in the cargo bay, checking over their equipment. Grog is just as enormous out of his armor as in it, tattoos bold across his head and shoulders and snaking down his arms, and Pike’s hair is loose and falls around her face, framing it in silver. Scanlan could write songs about her hair. In fact, he’s going to. He decides it right then and there.

“Oi!” he calls as he crosses the cargo hold, skirting a questionable-looking stain from that run of experimental chemical equipment out to Bothawui. Maybe it’s time to consider what they’re transporting, he thinks. Or stick to spice. At least spice doesn’t corrode your hull after too long a contact.

“Hey,” Grog says as he approaches, setting his helmet down and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “What’s up?”

“You ever consider smuggling?” he says, and watches as they both understand what he’s asking them. Grog lights up, that slightly frightening smile curling across his face, eyes going bright. Pike huffs out a laugh and shakes her head, sending her hair swirling around her face like stardust.

“We thought you’d never ask,” says Grog, and Scanlan claps him around the forearm––tries to, anyways, but it’s hard when the man’s forearm is thicker than Scanlan’s neck––and winks at Pike, and that’s that.


	4. the ashari

> part iv: the ashari [an anxious slip of a girl who can bend a sheet of durasteel with a look but gets flustered holding a conversation]

* * *

It happens like this: he and Vex are trying to lose a squad of imperials in a crowded market on Corellia when Vex leans over to him and murmurs, “We’ve picked up a tail.”

“What?” Scanlan hisses. “Where?”

“Behind us, about a block back. In black, hood up. No, don’t  _ look _ ––“

Too late. Scanlan cranes his neck around to see a narrow humanoid stop in their tracks and dart behind a market stall. Next to him Vex sighs.

“Great, they’ve probably gone to alert someone––“

Scanlan shrugs. He doesn’t feel particularly anxious about it, which is a good sign in his book. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Vex gapes at him, and he takes the opportunity to wink. Her mouth goes flat. “How did you survive out here on your own.”

“I’ve had a lot of experience,” he says with a broad smile. Vex picks up her pace, almost too fast for him to keep up with, and he awkwardly jogs along at her side. She turns off the boulevard down another long, busy street.

“Here’s the plan,” she says, keeping her voice low under the hum of the crowd, one hand firmly on the bow at her back. “You take the next left, and go straight until I give the sign. I’m going to check in on our friend.”

“What? What sign? Why am I the bait?”

“Because you’re about as stealthy as a Bantha. I’ll protect you. Trust me.”

He does––that’s not even a question, really; he’s known her too long––but still. He hates playing the bait. Just because he’s small and doesn’t carry around fancy weaponry doesn’t mean he can’t be the ambusher instead of the ambushee for once.

But Vex is staring at him with that  _ I could kill a man with an arm tied behind my back just go with it _ look she gets sometimes so Scanlan lifts his chin and starts walking. Within a dozen paces, Vex has disappeared, and Scanlan is left to continue on his own.

He strolls down the street, and as he goes the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up. He weaves through the masses, ducking through taller sentients as they wander down the wide, sunny boulevard. The sound of the market crowd sings around him, blotting out the details, and the chaos puts him on edge. He functions best causing scenes, not being dropped in one. He finds himself picking up his pace without quite meaning to.

Imperials are one thing, but this hum of  _ waiting waiting waiting _ building in his gut is something else, and he has never enjoyed getting caught up in things he doesn’t know about. He’s a simple man; he loves the simple things in life: drink, dance, women, a good story, and thumbing his nose at the odd imperial outpost just to keep things interesting. Unknowns like this are bad for business, and his general livelihood.

He turns down the narrow side street, barely more than an alley, buildings looming above him and casting a deep shadow over the road despite the daylight. It sends a shiver down his spine. Something is building; he smells ozone like a storm even though the sky is clear above him, and it makes his skin prickle. Gnomish intuition is never wrong.

Something clattering behind him jolts him from his introspection and he turns around, hand falling to the blaster on his belt, as the tall humanoid from earlier melts out of the crowd, face obscured by the heavy hood. Even from this far away Scanlan can tell they tower over him. They approach with measured steps, as if they’ve got all the time in the world, and the thrumming in Scanlan’s gut gets stronger.  _ Now would be a good time, Vex. _

But it’s just him and this mysterious figure, so he falls back on what he does best. He talks.

“Hello!” he calls, waving. The figure doesn’t respond, only steps closer, slow and steady, cloak flowing like water around them, and Scanlan chances a half-step back.

“Are you following me?” he asks. “That’s pretty rude, you know.”

The figure neither responds nor slows; they drift forward with a measured pace, and the  _ waiting waiting waiting _ sensations in his gut goes still and silent, shifts into something that feels suspiciously like  _ here _ .

“Who are you?” he asks, an edge to his voice, and the figure stops short at the question, seems to hesitate. Then they freeze, go stone-still, just as Vex shimmers into view right behind them, a blaster pressed into the small of their back. Scanlan jumps; he hates when they do that.

“Now then,” say Vex, free hand grabbing at the back of the creature’s hood. “Who are you?”

Vex yanks on the cloth, pulling her hood back to reveal––

A girl?

“Please don’t shoot,” she says hastily, and Scanlan stares. There’s a dusting of freckles across her cheeks and her thick red hair is tucked behind not-entirely-human ears, and a neural implant, twisting and elegant as a crown, blinks at her temples. She’s got a travel pack hanging at her side too, but doesn’t look armed––though it’s hard to tell beneath the shapeless cloak, and any smuggler worth his spice knows that means nothing out here. The woman swallows and stumbles over her words.

“I–– I’m Keyleth, I’ve been following––“

“Following us, yes,” Vex finishes for her, voice sharp. “Why?”

“I sensed you, I was trying to see–– I wanted to know why.”

Scanlan approaches carefully, and the woman––Keyleth––eyes him warily. “You  _ sensed _ us?”

“Yeah. With the Force, I mean. Although I, um. Don’t exactly know who you are?”

Vex’s voice has never sounded quite so flat. “You sensed us. With the Force.”

“I–– Yes, I can explain.” She tries to look over her shoulder, hair falling into her face. She brushes it away impatiently. “You’re not going to shoot me, are you?”

Vex meets Scanlan’s eyes. Scanlan’s gut is silent on the matter. He shrugs.

“We’re still thinking about it,” he says, cheerful. The woman pales a little bit, and he sees Vex narrow her eyes and raise her eyebrows.  _ What are you doing, Shorthalt _ , she’s asking; Scanlan ignores her. “How about you explain, and then we’ll decide.”

Keyleth wears a frown that mirrors the one creeping across Vex’s face. “I don’t really think this is the best place for that conversation,” she says slowly.

“Are you Jedi?” asks Vex; there’s a note of stifled curiosity in her voice that Scanlan feels humming in his chest too, and he does his best to ignore it. Jedi are a danger to themselves and others; they’re bad for business, and for staying undetected, and just bad luck in general. But the woman shakes her head, hair swinging behind her.

“No, I’ve never had any training, I promise, I’m just… I’m good at noticing people. Important people. Or, places. I’m Ashari.”

Scanlan’s eyebrows rise on their own and behind her, Vex says, “I thought the Ashari cult died out with the Empire.”

“No,” says Keyleth, something cold and hard in her voice; the very air seems to shiver as she speaks. Scanlan believes her––it makes sense, now, how she noticed them among the shouting masses of Coronet City. “Only one of the clans. I think, I mean. I have to, to find the others, to make sure. But I’m going to make the Empire pay for that.”

“You’re crazy,” says Scanlan quietly. “The Empire’s too big.”

“I know,” Keyleth replies, and there’s a desperation to her voice that sets his teeth on edge; it bleeds off her, along with half a dozen other emotions he can’t place. He smells that ozone again, the phantom crackle of electricity. “But, I sensed you, and the Force––”

Scanlan has a dozen responses to that, about speaking of Force sensitivity out here in the open, and about staying uninvolved, and about how pointless it all is, but they’re all interrupted by a flat, tinny, familiarly-modulated voice behind Vex shouting, “Halt!”

Vex’s blaster immediately disappears so she can grab the bow at her back instead, priming it with a quiet whine as white-armored men pour into the street, blank black eyes staring above artificial frowns, blasters drawn. Scanlan feels his stomach drop. The girl goes pale.

“Time to go,” Vex mutters.

“Yep!” Scanlan agrees. As if sensing their imminent departure, the approaching Stormtroopers shift into a jog. “Hope your brother got back to the ship.”

“Me too,” Vex says. “Come on, Keyleth, we’ll pick this up later.”

“What––“ Keyleth starts, but Vex grabs her around the wrist and yanks her down the street, breaking into a run without a backwards glance. Scanlan barrels along right behind her, short legs pumping, waiting for the telltale whine of blaster fire to erupt around them.

“Wait!” Keyleth shouts, and they ignore her; this isn’t the first Imperial squad they’ve run from and Scanlan’s ready to swear on his ship that it won’t be the last. He chances a look behind him; the front row of troopers take a knee, armor clattering against the permacrete road, blasters rising to take aim. He picks up the pace.

“Why is it always us,” he pants, and thinks he sees the glimmer of a grin on Vex’s face. The intersection approaches; they’ll be able to lose them in the crowded boulevard. Probably. At least they won’t have a clear shot. It’s just another couple dozen feet. They can make it. They have to make it.

Several things happen at once. First, someone shouts, “Fire!” and a volley of blaster bolts sings through the air, a whining harmony of red energy that burns into the walls and the ground; one brushes Vex’s shoulder, not enough to burn but enough to shock her into loosening her grip. Second, Keyleth yanks her arm free and turns around in a swirl of red hair.

Third, Vex pulls up short, shouting after Keyleth, and Scanlan skids to a stop next to her, ready to tell her to leave the Ashari and run; one girl’s crusade isn’t a reason to get shot in a Corellian back alley.

Fourth–– well.

Keyleth strides forwards, stride long and measured. She pulls her cloak off as she moves, dark fabric falling in a puddle on the duracrete, and Scanlan catches sight of swirling tattoos down her arms and thinks in a detached sort of way that Grog would think that was really cool. The troopers shift their aim from the three of them to her, helmets watching impassively as she walks towards them. Scanlan glances behind him while they’re occupied. The intersection is so close; they could make it now, while the troopers are occupied with the crazy redhead, he and Vex could make it right now if––

The thought dies unfinished, fades away into blind shock as Keyleth clenches her fists at her side and drags her arms up into the air. He gawks as the troopers’ blasters rise with her gesture––five, ten, twenty feet. Some of the stormtroopers let go, scrambling away from their weapons as they pull themselves free; others cling stubbornly to their blasters, feet dangling above the permacrete. Scanlan sees Vex gaping out of the corner of his eye.

Keyleth’s hands hang high above her head, and everyone stares, frozen in shock, the world holding its breath. Then, carefully, almost gently, she unfurls her fingers, and the blasters plummet.

The troopers dangling in the air drop like bricks, clattering down onto the ground and their fellow soldiers, and the blasters hit hard enough to ricochet, red bolts of energy flying every which way, and for a moment Scanlan stares at the chaos with openmouthed awe.

Then Vex shouts, “Great, now let’s  _ go _ !” over the racket, and lunges forward to grab Keyleth again, and the three make a break for the end of the street, pounding into the crowded boulevard and putting as much distance as possible between them and the stormtroopers.

They slow to a walk three blocks away, the spires of the spaceport poking through the city’s towering skyline. When Scanlan looks over at Keyleth, she’s grinning with feral pride. He sighs.

“Listen,” he says. “We’re not fighting the Empire, okay? We’re just a freighter. We ship stuff. Sometimes legal stuff, sometimes not. And we travel, a lot, and if you’re looking for people, well, we might find ‘em. We aren’t, y’know, martyrs or rebels or whatever. We’re not in this fight.”

“Not yet,” says Keyleth, ominous and almost smug, and Scanlan doesn’t want to know what she means by that. Then she blinks, and stops short. “Wait, are you–– I can come with you?”

“What you did back there was pretty cool,” he admits. “We could use someone with your, uh. Skills.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. You want the job or not?”

“I–– Yeah! Yes!”

Vex raises an eyebrow, amused. “You’re sure about this?”

Scanlan waves her away. “Yeah, yeah. We could use someone with a good nose for danger.”

“I don’t think my nose is any better than the rest of me,” says Keyleth, and Scanlan already regrets everything, but Vex has that grin on her face that she wears when they’re picking up strays, so he ignores the strange hum in his gut and cracks his neck.

“We’ll work on it,” he promises. “Welcome aboard.”


	5. the mechanic

> part v: the mechanic [a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma with a decent fashion sense and a knack for explosions]

* * *

It happens like this: after a getaway that comes a little too close for comfort, the Cube’s engines give out on a sulfurous mining moon in the middle of nowhere and there’s one mechanic in the system.

The only problem is, he’s in jail.

“For what?” asks Grog when Scanlan returns with the news, lighter twenty creds for greasing a few palms.

“Attempted murder,” he replies, leaning against one of the cargo crates they’re supposed to be hauling halfway across the galaxy. If they don’t get off this rust bucket soon they’re going to miss the rendezvous, and that’s not gonna go over well with Gilmore. Not to mention the couple thousand credits they’ll be flushing down the drain.

Grog looks unfazed. “Sounds like our kinda guy.”

“We aren’t murders,” Keyleth chastises from halfway across the hold, looking up from her game of… something, Scanlan can’t remember what it’s called. Some weird Ashari card game that Tiberius has taken a shine to. “We’re smugglers. There’s a difference.”

“She’s right,” Pike agrees, her blaster in scattered pieces around her where she sits cross-legged on the ground. “I’m not sure we’re looking for, um. That.”

“You will be when you hear who he tried to murder,” Vax says, appearing next to Scanlan as if out of thin air, and it’s a testament to how often he does it that no one jumps. Vex, perched on top of a stack of crates, even rolls her eyes.

“Who would that be, brother?”

Vax grins, far too excited about all of this. “An imperial scientist.”

“What is an imperial scientist doing this far out?” Tiberius asks, finally dragged out of the game.

“Are they still here?” That’s Keyleth, eyes bright, and she’s not the only one looking a little too curious. Scanlan nips that in the bud; the last thing they need is to go chasing after some mysterious imperial.

“She left–– I don’t know when. I stopped listening. She’s gone, though.”

“They’re moving the prisoner–– was it tomorrow?” Vax asks, looking to him. Scanlan shrugs.

“Sure.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Vax amends.

“Tomorrow-ish?” Vex suggests dryly.

Scanlan nods. “Exactly.”

“So if we’re doing this––“

“Whoa.” Scanlan cuts Vax off before he can get going. “Doing what?”

“Breaking him out,” Vax replies. “I thought that’s why you brought it up back there.”

“Well I didn’t  _ mean _ it.”

“Well, who else is gonna fix the ship?”

“I–– Okay, you have a point, but are we sure––“

“Yes.” Vax, Grog, and Keyleth respond as one, their agreement echoing through the hold. Pike nods decisively a moment later, and Vex has already started climbing down the crates, adjusting her bow on her back as she goes. Scanlan throws his hands up.

“Alright, fine. Outvoted on my own ship. This is an outrage, you know. Mutiny.”

“It’s not that unusual, darling,” Vex says, standing next to her brother, and Scanlan regrets ever taking her under his wing.

“Someone tell me we at least have a plan.”

“Sure,” Grog says, tucking his helmet under his arm. “We go in, we kill ‘em, and we get the guy out.”

“A real plan,” Scanlan clarifies. The hold goes silent for a moment.

“Start with what we know,” Vex sighs. “We’ll go from there.”

* * *

Three hours and an argument later they have something that could loosely be called a plan, if one were feeling particularly generous and also had only a vague definition of the world “plan” with no personal experience.

“Oh, come on,” Vax says as they delve into the underground warren of the mining colony, and Scanlan can hear his shit-eating grin even over the comms. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Vax,” Keyleth groans at Scanlan’s side. “Why would you say that?”

“What?”

“Both of you shut up.” Vex’s voice crackles in his ear. “And Keyleth darling, make sure you let Scanlan do the talking.”

Scanlan says, “It’s what I get paid for.”

“You don’t get paid, though.”

“I should,” he mumbles.

They walk in silence, feet echoing along the austere grey halls of the station, the poisonous world above sealed off by the colony’s carefully-calibrated heat shields and nearly a hundred feet of thick stone. The hiss of the oxygen recyclers hums through the complex, a nice counterpoint to the low buzz of machinery in the walls and the distant sound of voices. Now and then a light flickers above them; the whole station looks like it’s seen better days. Scanlan can’t say he’s surprised; rim colonies that need this much upkeep are lucky to survive a generation.

They turn the corner, skirting past what sounds like a mess hall––he hears the clink of cutlery and rumble of a crowd through the closed door––and Keyleth says, as if an afterthought, “Anyways, I’m really bad at talking.”

“You’re not–– Yeah, you kinda are,” Scanlan says, and Vex hisses for them to  _ shut up _ over the comms again so they go quiet.

It’s a long, awkward walk to the detention level in the lower levels of the station, where the lighting is even dimmer and the heat of the planet seeps through the patchy shields and humidity hangs in the air. The warden looks up when the step into the three-room detention ward. It’s not much to look at––more of a brig, really, the kind of place you hold drunk and disorderly workers overnight. Not the kind of place you hold a traitor and criminal.

Not unless you’re waiting for someone else to come deal with them up, of course.

Scanlan, who has spent more than one morning talking his way out of exactly this kind of jail cell, braces himself as they approach the desk. The warden’s eyes narrow and his mouth thins. He’s an angular and grey man: sharp chin, flat pale lips, thick grey eyebrows, cold grey eyes. He looks like someone stuck him in a suit press; even the tick between his brow is a neat furrow. Only his hair––a wild, curling mess of greying brown––has any life around him. Scanlan already knows he’s going to be a hard sell.

But talking is what he does best, so he lets his shoulders drop and strolls forwards, wraps the familiar double-layer of  _ trust me _ and  _ listen _ around him as he approaches, and reminds himself this is just another con.

“Hello,” he says smoothly. “I’m here for the prisoner pickup.”

The warden peers over the desk.

“The what?”

“The prisoner pickup. The Empire is very interested in him.”

The warden’s stare pins him in place. “How do you know about the prisoner? We haven’t contacted anyone.”

Ah. Whoops. “We keep very good track of these things,” Scanlan says.  _ Believe me. _ “Criminal activity. Crime. You know how it is.”

The man’s face is nearly impossible to read. “You’re a little short for an officer.”

“I’m tall where it counts,” Scanlan assures him. Keyleth stifles a sound behind him and the warden’s faces goes even flatter, mouth pinching at the corners.

“Indeed,” he says. His voice is angular too, a flat Mid Rim accent. “I’m going to need to see some ID.”

“You don’t need to see his identification,” Keyleth says, and Scanlan’s about to tell her to be quiet and let him do this when the man’s eyes slip out of focus.

“I don’t need to see his identification,” he agrees easily, then snaps back to himself, sharp again. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Well, Imperial efficiency,” Scanlan brags, doing his best to keep himself from turning around to gawk at Keyleth, because he can get people to open up, or trust him more than they ought, but he’s only ever heard of Jedi changing someone’s mind like that. “Is he ready for transport?”

“Not yet,” says the man. “Give me just a moment, I’ll have him ready.”

“We’ll just, uh, wait here.” Scanlan folds his arms. “Make it snappy.”

The warden gives him a look that could freeze Tatooine and disappears into the back room of the detention center.

“I don’t like him,” says Keyleth quietly. “He’s cold.”

Scanlan doesn’t quite understand what she means by that, but he finds himself in full agreement. Something about this doesn’t quite sit right with him.

“Everyone be ready,” he says over his commlink. “We’re gonna be leaving real soon.”

“How’s it going?” Vex asks.

“Really well,” says Scanlan, and Keyleth groans.

“Why did you have to say that?”

“Y’know,” Scanlan tells her, “for someone who believes in an all-encompassing mystical energy, you sure are superstitious.”

“I’m not––“ she starts, but a howling cry of pain from the back cell cuts her off, and they share a look before dashing towards the room. Keyleth reaches the door before him; he has to shoulder past her into the small, bare cell, scene unfolding before him: the angular warden points a long, narrow baton alight with flickering blue energy at a huddled bundle of a sentient pressed against the slate-grey walls, all white hair and hollow eyes, and Keyleth holds her arm out, hand a claw in the air, as the warden stares at her, fear painted across his face.

Then time catches up with him and Keyleth makes a fist and yanks. The baton rips free of the warden’s hands and clatters to the floor on the other side of the room, and the prisoner says, “A Jedi––“ and the warden snarls and after that it’s all rather a blur of energy bolts and shouting.

When everything settles again the twins stand in the doorway, Vex’s bow still drawn in her hands and one of Vax’s vibroknife sticking out of the warden’s back. A moment later the knife snaps back into Vax’s palm and he sheaths it.

“Wow, yeah,” he says, as if they’re talking about the weather. “You’re doing great.”

“Who in the Nine Corellian Hells are you?”

The sentient––a human, who can’t be much older than a kid, though it’s hard to tell with humans––uncurls stiffly and pushes himself up, one hand braced on the wall. He towers over everyone in the room, except Keyleth, and even in his ragged state––his tattered clothes hang off him, and his hollow cheeks give him an almost skeletal look––he stands up straight, the kind of blue-blood posture they teach in the core. The way he squints down his nose at them rounds out the image. Then Scanlan realizes he just can’t see, and the sense of stature fades until Scanlan is sure he imagined it, and he finds his tongue.

“Well that’s just rude. We saved your life.”

The kid bristles. “I was handling it.”

“And doing a marvelous job,” Vex agrees, only a little sardonic. One corner of the kid’s mouth quirks, and he runs a trembling hand through his hair, aftershocks from the stun baton. Scanlan watches the twins notice and frown as one, and he wonders if the dead warden knows how lucky he is to have gotten a quick end.

“We should, uh, probably go,” Keyleth says into the stiff silence. She pointedly does not look at the body of the warden on the ground.

“Right,” Scanlan agrees. “You’re good with engines, right?”

“I–– Yes?” The kid looks between them, brow furrowed.

“Great, because it’s gonna be one short ride if you're not.”

“What do you––“

He’s cut off by the crackle of an inter-system comm in the front room, a garbled mess of static and confusion that indicates they’re gonna have company soon.

“Questions later,” Vax decides. “Leaving now.”

“Or you could stay,” Scanlan offers, and the kid goes even whiter, somehow, and his eyes go hard, steely like the inside of this cell, and the air seems to chill around him.

“No,” he says. “I’m coming.”

* * *

The man stops only to gather his belongings––a pair of complicated-looking spectacles, a blaster with more mods than Scanlan can count, and a thick blue coat, which must be hell to wear in this hot and humid station––from behind the warden’s desk when they duck out of the detention ward, giving up stealth for speed as they hurry down the austere halls. It’s not like there’s much to hide behind anyways, and Scanlan’s reasonably sure that everyone’s still in the mess hall; certainly they have yet to see anyone wandering the station. He furiously hopes it stays that way.

They make it down two levels before the warning saxons sound, high pitched and blaring through the narrow halls, loud enough to make his teeth ache.

“I think they’ve noticed us,” Vex says, and Vax taps his comm on.

“Time to go, Tibsy,” he says, and Tiberius crackles back, “Affirmative!” Moments later something rumbles to the left, and dust rains from the ceiling. The lights flicker.

“That should keep them busy,” Vax says. “Shall we?”

The kid doesn’t move. A frown mars his face, eyes narrow and guarded behind his spectacles. “Who are you?” he demands, the incredulity and surprise of earlier gone from his expression. His voice trembles as he asks, hands balled into fists at his side.

“We don’t have time for this,” Vax snaps, and the man draws himself upright. The coat does nothing to hide how thin he is; he looks almost fragile swamped in all that extra cloth.

His eyes, though, are steel.

“I will not go anywhere with you until I know who you are. Do you work for the Empire? Are you bounty hunters?”

Vax gapes. “Bounty–– What?”

“We’re smugglers, actually,” Keyleth says helpfully, and the kid’s frown deepens.

“Well, I’m a musician,” Scanlan corrects. He keeps his voice light, jovial. Non-threatening. He’s familiar with this spooked-animal look, and they don’t exactly have the time for it but better to deal with this now than in the middle of a fight. “We need a mechanic. You’re a mechanic. Whoever’s in charge here wouldn’t let you out, so…”

“So you staged a jailbreak?”

“Welcome to the crew,” says Vex. “We’re a work in progress.”

“Assuming we make it out of here,” Keyleth says. The kid opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. His shoulders drop and he shakes his head slowly.

“Well,” he says, finally. “Alright, then. I must say, this is the strangest way I’ve been hired.”

Vex laughs. “Darling, you don’t know the half of it.”

A second explosion follows the first and the ground shifts slightly, the lights blinking off for a moment before emergency lighting flickers on, reddish and dim, and they snap back to the situation at hand.

“Time to go,” Vax says, dashing off ahead as he’s wont to do; the rest of them sprint after him.

Through some immense luck, they make it all the way down to the docking bay before anyone catches up with them, and when they do it’s a handful of half-armed, confused looking miners, and even Grog doesn’t have the heart to fight them.

It helps that they all quail when they see him in full armor with his blaster cannon casually pointed towards the ceiling.

“Uh,” says one. “We don’t want any trouble.”

“Nor do we,” says Vax. “I think we can come to an agreement.”

Someone shoves through the crowd, a woman with greying hair pulled back in a severe bun; she wears goggles around her neck and is still in uniform, grey suit slightly scorched from a surface walk. The miners look to her as she folds her arms and frowns at them, deep lines around her mouth.

“What sort of agreement would that be?” she asks.

“Do not test us and we won’t kill you,” Tiberius says, a dangerous rumble in his voice, and Keyleth immediately puts her hand out to shush him.

“Whoa, Tibsy,” Vax murmurs, and the miners stir anxiously. Scanlan steps to the front of the group.

“We’ll take this dangerous man off your hands,” says Scanlan, gesturing to the kid, pushing a hint of suggestion,  _ this is a good deal _ and  _ no one wants any trouble here _ , “and you can keep working without any imperial entanglement. Win-win?”

The woman considers it. Scanlan waits.

“And the explosions?”

“There’s no structural damage,” Pike assures her gently, Grog a frightening counterpoint looming over her shoulder. “Just a lot of noise. Um, and you may have to fix some wiring. Sorry.”

The woman nods slowly. “Alright,” she decides. “If you ever show up here again, though––“

Grog rumbles out a laugh. “Oh, don’t worry, we won’t.”

Scanlan tips a hat he isn’t wearing. “It’s been a pleasure, ma’am.”

She cracks a smile. “Likewise.”

The masses behind her shift. “But, boss––“ someone starts, and she holds up a hand.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” she snaps, and the crowd shuffles and begins to disperse, men and women in grey jumpsuits funneling back into the grey warren of halls. The woman locks eyes with Scanlan.

“No Imperials,” she says. Scanlan nods.

“None.”

“Alright. Fly safe, captain.”

Then they’re alone in the docking bay, except for a pair of droids shifting canisters at the far end of the room, and everyone turns to stare at the mechanic. Scanlan rubs his hands together.

“Right. This is–– Uh. You know, I never got your name.”

The kid draws himself up, shifts his posture slightly, and suddenly the skinny, frail boy they pulled out of a detention cell disappears, and a man who could very well be an imperial officer in his own right stands among them, wearing authority like a cloak.

“Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III,” he says, syllables rolling off his tongue like water, voice crisp and a little wry, as if his name itself is a joke. “Mechanic and traitor to the Empire. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Scanlan nods. “Sure. Right.”

Vax gets over the shock first, shakes himself out of it. “Welcome to the crew, Percy,” he says, stepping up to clap him on the back. The kid rocks a little.

“It’s actually––“ he starts, but Vax is already moving past him up the ramp, calling for Trinket, and the kid seems to stumble out of his haughty stance and back into his own skin, and like that the spell is broken.

“I’m glad no one died,” Keyleth says. “Well, no one except, y’know.”

Percy blinks behind his glasses. “He deserved it. Trust me.”

Keyleth hums, and reaches out for a handshake. He takes her hand and after a moment’s hesitation bows to kiss the tops of her knuckles. She laughs brightly and curtsies, slipping into a matching formality that has everyone staring. “I’m Keyleth. It’s an honor to meet you.”

The kid smiles. “Likewise.”

Vex slides up next to her. “Vex,” she says, offering her hand, and Percy bows to kiss it too. “My brother with the penchant for nicknames is Vax.”

“I’m sure that’s never confusing,” Percy says with a wry smile, and Vex grins.

“Oh, you’ll fit right in.” She hooks her arm through Keyleth’s and the two drift up the ramp, talking in low voices.

Tiberius pushes his way through the Mandalorians to shake the kid’s hand, pumping it up and down, and Percy has to tilt his head up to meet the Trandoshan’s eyes.

“I’m Tiberius Stormwind!” says Tiberius. “From Draconia. And, ah, this is Grog and Pike. They are quite skilled warriors.”

Percy nods to them. “Pleasure.”

Scanlan steps forward, looking up at the man. “And I’m Scanlan Shorthalt, captain of this fine vessel and in need of your services.”

“The, ah, Lady’s Favour?” Percy says, twisting to look at the name painted across the hull. “She’s a Suwantek, right? I recognize the extended cargo bay.”

“We call her the Cube,” Grog says, pulling his helmet off. He grins like he’s telling a secret, and Percy raises an eyebrow, looking over the ship.

“Because of the shape?”

“Something like that,” Scanlan nods.

“He named it after his dick,” Pike interrupts bluntly, helmet tucked under one arm while she runs the other through her hair, and Percy turns a delicate shade of red. It clashes terribly with the blue of his coat.

“Right.”

Scanlan grins. “My pride and joy.”

“Um.”

“I’ll give you a tour,” Scanlan says as Pike and Grog disappear up the ramp. It trembles slightly under Grog’s weight. “We can go from there. Welcome aboard, Percy.”

“Happy to be here,” he says, and seems to sag in on himself now that everyone else has disappeared into the bowels of the ship, eyes taking on that familiar hollow look, and Scanlan is instantly glad they did this, despite the mess and danger and disaster. He knows a kindred spirit when he sees one.

He claps the side of the kid’s thigh and leads him up the ramp, where the ragtag group of mercenaries and wanderers he calls a crew squabble good-naturedly in the cargo hold, and watches the kid perk up as Vax cracks a particularly crude joke about Grog’s patchy beard.

Yeah. He’ll fit right in. Scanlan’s no Jedi, but there are some things he just knows.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] we're on the road to nowhere (let's find out where it goes)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12290592) by [Jadesfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire)




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